


You Machine

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Metaphorical, Post Reichenbach, Reichenbach Falls, You Machine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-22
Updated: 2012-07-22
Packaged: 2017-11-10 12:08:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/466097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Sherlock was invariably human, and John, John Watson, army doctor who cared too much, who wore his heart on his chest, tore out Sherlock’s and replaced it with a bit of plastic."</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Machine

It was never a question of whether or not Sherlock was going to die soon.

It was always when. At least, it had been to John. 

But that thought always got pushed back to the corner of his mind, and running with Sherlock across London chasing its worst, dodging bullets and catching killers, John believed in Sherlock’s immortality.

Standing under St. Bart’s, the sky deceptively bright, it suddenly came crashing down on him that that was a false belief, a misguided attempt to imagine everything never ended. 

He watched, he listened, he reached for Sherlock before being forced to see his demise. 

He heard the cracks, saw the blood, felt no pulse.

His feet gave way, and he sunk to the ground, sunk under the weight of reality, of the lie Sherlock told, and what in god’s name would make him jump.

And crushing, crushing him, crushing everything that held him up, kept him walking, moving, living, were the last words.

_You machine._

John would see Ella. 

He would talk to her, answer her questions, deny her answers, and complain about the nightmares that plagued him whenever he closed his eyes.

How human had Sherlock been, how so unlike a machine, and John was the only one who ever really got to see it.

When Moriarty planted a bomb, when Sherlock’s mask fell for a few seconds; when he wept, afraid, afraid at how everything had fallen apart, how much he could feel, afraid of the monster in the woods; Sherlock was only the imitation of a machine, only the ghost of parts and pieces.

Sherlock was invariably human, and John, John Watson, army doctor who cared too much, who wore his heart on his shoulder, tore out Sherlock’s and replaced it with a bit of plastic.

And now, left alone, how desperately he tried to imitate the machine himself, to shut himself off, shut down his beating, bleeding heart. 

He had killed the human and left a machine.

Now John would do it again.


End file.
